


what's left of purgatory

by theprimrosepath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Mentions of Other Voltron Paladins, Moral Dilemmas, Not Voltron: Legendary Defender Season/Series 08 Compliant, POV Lotor, POV Second Person, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Recovery But Failing, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, compassion - Freeform, imagine that allura and lotor survived and everyone lives in the same place basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 08:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17280674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprimrosepath/pseuds/theprimrosepath
Summary: As friendly as the boy acts, you're well-aware of the simple truth that no one in this castle nor anyone else in this universe has any truly fond interest in you. With the things you've done, they ought not to. They're kind people who've been blessed enough to not so sully their hands.You don't understand why they insisted you live intheirhome, in particular. But you suppose that's a mystery of wholeness.





	what's left of purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not sure what this is, except maybe practice. but i might end up expanding it if i feel like it.
> 
> some throwaway continuity nods are made in this to another fic of mine, [but the greatest of these](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627172). it's not really necessary, but you won't get them unless you've read it.

"Do you even sleep, dude?" Lance asks you.

By now you've picked up that 'dude' is an informal, friendly way of address, so hearing the word in reference to you makes something nauseating squirm in your gut. But you maintain your serenity as you rinse a bowl in the sink. "Of course I sleep."

The boy pulls out a chair by the breakfast bar to plop down into, slouching back with some cup in his hand. "See, that kind of sounds like a lie to me. We've been comparing notes."

Shoulders tense. They've been watching. "Have you?"

"Yup." He pops the 'p'. "You're awake right now, at two in the morning. Which, okay, so am I. But Keith gets up at the crack of dawn to work out, and he sees you out and about then, too. You always watch Hunk make breakfast. Allura always catches you here on the tail-end of her lunch. You work with Pidge in the afternoon, Coran in the evening, and you eat dinner with us. And you still take care of Kova and do things on your own. There's like, _maybe_ five hours in there somewhere. But I don't really get the impression you're a sleeper anyway."

The bowl clacks loudly from your firm shoving of it into the cabinet. "Well then. It sounds as if you have it all figured out."

"Hey, I'm not saying this because I hate you or something," Lance says at length, alarm in his tone. "Just concern. People need to sleep."

"I sleep."

"Should I... repeat myself, too?"

You sigh and sit back down in your wheelchair. You're quite tired of it now. But it's necessary when a body, even one like yours, has been forced to the breaking point and then shoved off a cliff, in addition. Your body wears out like pure rust, these days. Just washing the bowl has left your arms exhausted. "Don't. I mean it when I say I sleep, though perhaps not often. Not often enough in your opinion, it appears."

"In all our opinions."

"Of course," you say. You doubt Allura, Keith, or any of the Alteans care much for your health. But the argument is pointless. "Sleep is not something I need much of. I promise my health is little impeded by it."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes."

"It's not like... insomnia or anything?"

"Why does this matter so much to you," you ask. You've rolled your wheelchair around by now to glower at Lance. "Why do you even care."

"Hm, I don't know. Maybe because I'm not an asshole," he replies mildly.

You stare at him, baffled.

He sips noisily from the straw in his cup, expression screwed up. The cup seems to be filled with some kind of thick, pink liquid.

"You," you begin.

"I didn't mean to say it like that," Lance interrupts, both abashed and wry. "You just always ask for it."

You don't continue. As friendly as the boy acts, you're well-aware of the simple truth that no one in this castle nor anyone else in this universe has any truly fond interest in you. With the things you've done, they ought not to. They're kind people who've been blessed enough to not so sully their hands.

The professionalism is merely that—a way for you to give back. With reversing time and raising the dead out of the question, it's really the least the Galra can do.

You don't understand why they insisted you live in _their_ home, in particular. But you suppose that's a mystery of wholeness.

"If you want to know why I care," Lance says, and slurps again from his cup. His downcast expression is contemplative. "Why _we_ care. You know, it bothers me that you think we wouldn't."

"I literally tried to kill all of you and conquer the universe."

The boy vehemently points a finger at you. "See? That's what I'm talking about. You know, okay? You know what you did was wrong."

Your tone comes out more sour than dry. "Do I? It's not hard to acknowledge fact. You recall that I have not apologized for a single thing. If I went back in time, I would change very little of what I've done."

"Yeah, that kinda sucks," he says. "It's why you're still under house arrest, if you haven't guessed. A mob would probably try to murder you if Zethrid didn't get there first."

"Why?"

Why treat you as a friend when you are far from the sort. Why keep you close when you could kill them in their sleep, body weakness or no body weakness. Why feed you and house you and eat with you at the same table, why build a custom wheelchair to ease your convenience, why pretend at concern and civility—when it would be simpler and more satisfying to all to let you die.

Perhaps you have yet to pay your dues. But you doubt anyone in this universe would shed a tear regardless if you perished.

The fruits of your continued existence could hardly be worth much either way. Pidge, Coran, and the rest of the Coalition scientists are more than enough. You never were an engineer by nature; all that ever interested you, once upon a time, were people.

And how many of them are left to you now?

Lance exhales through his nose. "If I'm going to be honest. Not all our reasons are the same. Some of them aren't exactly nice."

"I could never have guessed."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm just gonna keep it simple: everyone deserves to be a better person."

The boy slurps at his drink as you puzzle over the words with increasing perplexity. "That doesn't make any sense," you reply finally. "Are you telling me that if Zarkon had lain down his arms, you would have welcomed him into your house?"

"That's not what I said."

"Then..."

"If Zarkon really _had_ felt bad and wanted to stop, then, hm." Lance's fingers tap along his cup. "Maybe we would've given him a trial or something. He might have died anyway. I don't know. That didn't happen obviously. The _point_ is that, well. You're not your dad."

"Perhaps consult Allura before you put those words in her mouth."

"She was really angry at you for good reasons and you know it," he replies. "You're really gonna hold that against her?"

You exhale. "No."

He nods. "We haven't forgotten about what you did. But if this universe wants to move on, we can't hold a trial for every single person in the Empire that did something wrong and, I don't know, put them all in jail, because _everyone_ did something bad."

"Not everyone."

"Not everyone," Lance agrees. "But a lot of people. Quiznak, a lot of our allies did questionable things. A couple of our friends tried to sell the Lions to the Empire for a bounty. The Blades sacrificed and ignored a lot of people in pain to manage what they did." He takes another sip of his drink. "What are we gonna do, kill all of them?"

Like you tried to do.

"The difference is that I'm not your friend."

"The fact that you think you've gotta be a friend to deserve, like, basic human decency is all kinds of quiznak'ed up, you know."

You frown hard. "That's what I don't understand. I don't deserve it. Nothing I will ever do will make me a better person. The crimes I committed are done. I cannot reverse them."

"You can do better things now," the boy says. "You can decide to never do those things again."

"That could never wash my hands clean," you reply. "You think you understand the amount of horrors I've committed? You think you have any idea of the number of people I've killed, the number of planets I've abandoned, the countless societies I've watched crumble to dust under my father's Empire and done nothing?"

This is laughable. You want to laugh. You would, if you weren't sure that the sound would come out of your throat with hysteria.

You have watched planets burn. You have harvested the life from the last of Altea to plug into ship engines.

10,000 years. Do any of them understand that you have been alive these past 10,000 years and could not even save a single culture from annihilation without hurting them in return? You committed to one day ending Zarkon's tyranny, for the sake of anyone you _could_ save. For the sake of your sole, brief home, so long ago lost to fire because of you. But now that it's been done...

You are so tired of this charade of pretending that you deserve anything.

"No, I don't understand," Lance says softly. "Trust me, I don't want to. And hopefully no one will ever have to again. That was the point of all this, wasn't it?"

You look aside. The sympathy in his voice makes your stomach churn.

He sounds so much like Ark'el, sometimes.

"Listen. The best thing you can do for this universe now is to do better," he says. "Both Pidge and Coran have talked about how much you help them. And somewhere in there... you're an era old. You know more than engineering, right? You knew _people_."

Your every muscle stiffens. "Do not," and your voice is so soft that it's barely audible, "be suggesting what I think you are suggesting."

"Do you want to be useful or not," Lance snaps. You were about to be relieved to hear him exasperated with you for once, but he only sounds even more like Ark'el. You want to clap your hands over your ears. "A lot of the planets we're helping tell us that you've taken them over before. And that you changed everything before the Empire took them back."

Your hands clench into fists as something in your chest twists itself apart. "I let them. Do you understand? As soon as I saw my father's ship coming, I fled. I never grew familiar with them. Never."

"Never? Not at all? Because, you know, you've been such a nerd about Altean history, and well..."

"I am half-Altean," you say rigidly. "That is hardly a surprise."

"Boo. I can tell you're lying," he says. "I'm friends with the two of the biggest nerds in the universe, you know. They could pass a random tech lab on the street and if they haven't heard of it, they'll learn everything about it in an hour. I know how to recognize their kind."

Without another word, you turn your wheelchair towards the exit and start forwards. You should have done this from the start.

The boy gasps. "Hey!"

He leaps from his chair and blocks the way.

You're extraordinarily tempted to try running him over anyways, but he's far too tall for it to work. You halt.

"What's your problem?" he asks. "Why does actually being able to do something for people scare you so much?"

"I'm not scared," you snarl.

"Then what the quiznak is _this_?" Lance exclaims, gesturing at the both of you. "You're literally trying to run away. Look," he continues when you do nothing else but glare and pretend that your insides aren't in turmoil, "maybe this was a bad thing for me to bring up right now, Hunk wanted to do it. But this is your chance to do something no one else can do. This is your chance to help all these people you couldn't help before. What are you so scared of?"

"I'm sure you can guess," you spit. "Since you seem to know me so well."

"I just want you to agree. I don't want to be rude," he snaps. "Are you gonna accept some responsibility or not? Because you keep saying things about how you don't deserve to be better and then you give up when you get the chance. Do you _want_ to fail? Is that it?"

 _Do you want to fail_ —

Like it was a question of _want_.

"I cannot help any of those planets," you say, tone stiff. "If I knew anything about how their societies were, I likely forgot it long ago. One does that after thousands of years of memories begin to pile up."

Lance stares at you. It's with disappointment, but you're not sure if it's a believing one.

"Now would you get out of the way, if I may bother you to," you say. "Perhaps I might actually sleep. Which was your original purpose behind this conversation, after all."

The boy presses his lips together, but he eventually sighs. "Fine."

He steps aside. Thank the Ancients, he doesn't say anything more as you flee the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at [@primrose-path-of-dalliance](https://primrose-path-of-dalliance.tumblr.com) on tumblr, where i post fandom things and the occasional bit of writing.


End file.
